


Nip it in the Bud

by yeahmorty



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Anxiety Attacks, California, Eventual Smut, Florist Peter, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn With Plot, Slow Build, Slow Burn, paranormal themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-17 12:11:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12365517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeahmorty/pseuds/yeahmorty
Summary: After the death of his Uncle Ben, Peter Parker moves to a small town off the coast of California with his Aunt May. There, Peter finds himself amongst a flower shop, the sea, and the mystery that is Wade Wilson.





	1. Gladiolus

**Author's Note:**

> Gladiolus: The flower representing "strength of character".

Uncle Ben's death comes and goes like the changing seasons, each segment harsher and more brutal than the last. First, it rolls in lazy and thick like fog. The man is sick, terribly so, and the signs are not known until the fog is all encompassing, swallowing the family whole. It fills his mouth, fills Peter's thoughts, chokes Aunt May and they are left at a standpoint of fear and hope. Their world is crumbling and its all submerged in the haziness they, as a unit, cannot avoid.

 

It's something with his lungs they presume. Then its something with his heart. Later the doctor's deduce it to be general organ failure from a disease Aunt may refuses to tell Peter the name of. He's smart, he knows he could figure it out, but if Aunt May is keeping it from him...Perhaps it is for the better. Peter holds back on google and the library, deciding later in life he'd figure out the disease. For now, its hardly important seeing as it has no cure.

 

They sustain Uncle Ben for as long as they can. Peter goes to work, Aunt May still takes some of her shifts, but ultimately those become few and far between and her coworkers understand. She cooks less and the house smells like death waltzing around each corner, tempting Peter to fall apart and Aunt May to give in. Peter develops a newfound love for films as they are one of the few ways he can truly escape the prison his life has become.

 

Like a drop of a dime, the fog of Uncle Ben's disease dissipates and flickers into a kindled heat that threatens to choke Peter out, to burn him up, turn him to ash. His grades slip, summer is thrust upon him, and Peter spends it at home more often than not. Mary Jane always makes a point to pop by, she brings flowers and food and baked goods. She sits with Peter through it all as much as she can, never once blaming him or trying to get him out.

 

She understands how precious limited time could be.

 

Aunt May begins to cook again as she realizes its a good distraction, she still cleans. Aunt May tends to Uncle Ben like a nurse, taking her time with him, knowing the end is inevitable but smiling despite it all. She touches his face when he sleeps and holds him close when he is awake. Exhaustion ages her several years, the wrinkles in her face deeper with time and stress. They carve a road along her careful smiles, tucking all her looming fears deep beneath knitted skin and worry lines.

 

“He isn't going to make it, MJ.” Peter whispers one night. The girl is sleeping over, her red hair tied up tight. She's on her phone, tapping something to an old boyfriend when Peter says it.

 

MJ's fingers linger for a moment before locking the phone screen. She sighs, pulls Peter into her like a crescent and they sit like that for a long time. Its hardly romantic, something heavier and more satisfying than any romantic relationship could offer. She's warm and for the first time in months Peter cries.

 

He soaks her shirt to which he hiccups apology after apology for. MJ merely laughs it off and changes into one of Peter's superhero tees. It's an offensively bright garment that has a hole in the back, but he loves it and so does she.

 

“Even if he doesn't make it, you gotta be there for Aunt May,” MJ says once the tears have finally stopped, “She's gonna need you to be stronger than ever.”

 

Peter buries his face in his hands, more from anxiety than crying now. Brown eyes are tinged red and Peter's face is a permanent frown.

 

“I know.”

 

Peter wonders what he did in a past life to deserve so much misery in this one. To take his first set of parents was traumatic, but to take his second father figure? It seems cruel and unusual, something concocted from delusional Disney film makers trying to get a rise, like a poor Hollywood scheme gone bad at his expense.

 

“I promise I will help her however I can.”

 

MJ smiles softly, “Good. Now, let's get back to that movie marathon, okay?”

 

Peter presses play on his laptop and the room is lit with the glow of scifi and the familiar smell of popcorn. Several rooms over, Aunt May sobs into stiff sheets and holds a cold hand, one she doesn't release until morning. She hardly pays attention to the way light fades from the windows then returns again, all while she stays by Uncle Ben's side.

 

–

 

The funeral is long. There are more flowers than people, seeing as Uncle Ben loved them so. Peter wondered if his own affinity for carnations, daffodils, and the like came from the man. Was his green thumb genetic, passed down through that half of his family unto him?––Or perhaps it was from his upbringing and all the teachings he received in the garden from both his Aunt and his Uncle.

 

Peter's mind drifted into school, filtering through the applicable term: Nature vs. Nurture. That's what it was. Perhaps his love for flowers was a mixture of the two? Not to forget the socioeconomic stand point as well, Peter had been fortunate enough to grow up in a home where money was not typically too much of an issue and flowers touched every room, every event, wrapped tightly or set beautifully in vases.

 

Peter snaps back to the funeral, pulled out of his dissociative spell and right into the throw of things as he is asked to speak a bit about the man he looked up to so much. Peter swallows a thick knot in his throat, choking on it as the walk to the small podium is long and all eyes fall upon him. The telltales of an anxiety attack are prickling his senses, his fingertips, right down to his toes. Peter breathes in short gasps, hiccuping on the frigid air and he halts behind the makeshift podium to speak.

 

The first words are a jumbled, “ _Thankyousomuchforcomingeveryone,”_ that falters into the nostalgia of a lost loved one. Aunt May is front and center, her eyes gleaming with the wet tears that fell now and then, she dabbed them with a dark hanker chief.

 

“I-I...My Uncle Ben was a good guy,” Peter begins, falling down the rabbit hole of memories and emotions he was trying to suppress. Like Alice, he wishes he could have the cake with its little ' _Eat Me'_ and turn impossibly small. Then he could hide, could run, could leave the depressing affair. The only thing that keeps him grounded is his best friend, Mary Jane, watching him and nodding for him to continue in the sea of onlookers. She mouths a silent, “ _Its okay_ ,” and Peter almost believes her.

 

By the end of the five minute little speech, his heart is thumping wildly in his chest and Peter swears his hands had never been so clammy. He walks away from the podium with twitching fingers and downcast eyes as hands touch his back in comfort when he walks by. A relative he doesn't know the name of stops him and whispers encouragement, that his speech was so _heartfelt_.

 

Peter loses it.

 

Mary Jane follows him as he sprints away from the funeral, from the death, from the tears he's leaving in his path. Mary Jane follows them like breadcrumbs from _Hansel and Gretel_ and she finally finds Peter twitching and panicking behind a large tombstone, all dressed in black.

 

She crouches in her dress, sunglasses slipping down her nose. Even her eyes are twinged with an irritated red color from all the grief and she wraps her arms around Peter. Its remniscent of that marathon movie night. She's pressing her face into his wild brown hair as he tugs at it wildly in his disconcert state. His eyes are huge, he's panicking, oh _god he's panicking._

 

“Shh...Shh,” The redhead coos, her words muffled by the brown locks threatening to suffocate her. Peter thrashes a bit in her arms, his panic bubbling right up his throat and threatening to spill out his mouth and _infect_ Mary Jane. She holds it back, petting his back in long, slow strokes of comfort.

 

“I'm...We're _moving_ MJ.” He finally whispers, voice cracking.

 

Mary Jane's hand halts and the world finally closes in on them both.

 

–

 

They leave on an August morning. The sun is bleary and hot in the sky, touching the world with harsh fingers and ripping sweat from the bodies of busy New York bustlers. Peter and Aunt May haul the last of their things into the U-Haul, save for their bags packed for the trip. It was decided a month after Uncle Ben's death that they would drive, to give Peter the opportunity to photograph some of the more beautiful sites the United States had to offer.

 

Mary Jane helped, carrying over a large bag stuffed with some of Aunt May's trinkets. She dusts her hands off on torn jeans and offers a smile to the Aunt and her best friend. Peter returns it shakily. Weeks ago he had come to terms with this situation, relinquishing himself to the mantra: _Shit happens. Shit happens. Shit happens. Shithappens shithappens shithappensshithappensshithappensshithappens..._

 

Peter put on his brave face for this day, choosing to support both MJ and Aunt May in this rather than take the support they could offer him. He wears a loose yellow tee and jeans, stained with paint from the summer when him and MJ had first met––When they'd helped Uncle Ben paint the fence after Peter moved in. They had been younger then, but somehow the jeans still fit.

 

Hands shoved in his pockets, Peter toys with the idea of just running off now: Disappear, escape into the city streets and return when all of this was all over. Or perhaps he needed a redo button, an infinite spasm of regret flashing through him as he shoves the selfish thoughts away.

 

_Shit happens._

 

“So, you gonna get into Berkeley right?” MJ jokes, punching Peter in the arm.

 

Peter smiles fondly, pulling her in for a tight hug, “Shut up and hug me.”

 

Aunt May swats at Peter's head, “That's no way to talk to a girl!”

 

Peter laughs into it and MJ hugs him back fiercely, tears pricking her eyes and burning her nose. She pulls away and rests her hands on Peter's shoulders. Behind them, Aunt May walks away to give them a moment to themselves.

 

“Listen okay, you have to promise you'll visit and if you make other friends, they won't be as cool as me. Also, send me postcards with pictures, okay? I've always wanted to go to California–– _Yes I know_ I promise I'll visit but!” She held a finger to Peter's lips to silence him, “Make the most of this okay? This is wild and everything, but you're going to _California._ Don't hold back. This is your chance for whatever you want.”

 

Peter nodded dumbly, shoulders sagging some.

 

“And find a cute boy for us to talk about on face-time so it isn't always me blabbing about Harry. Okay?”

 

Peter nods again, at a lost for words as his throat tightens.

 

 _This is it_.

 

Aunt May comes back over and MJ's demeanor switches from serious back into carefree and excitable, to empathetic and caring.

 

There is a lot of tear-shed in the car as both Aunt and nephew hop onto the freeways, aiming for a better life.

 

–

 

Aunt May picked a small beach town in northern California for her and her nephew. The hills are _mountainous_ and topple in the distance, behind the little town that sits along the edge of a sparkling coastline. The weather rotates from fog infested mornings into breezy afternoons as summer tapers to an end. The town is crawling with life despite the limited population.

 

Classes at Peter's new highschool don't begin until late September, leaving him with a good chunk of time beforehand to adjust to his new home and state. California is a beauty, rolling hills and glittering seas and Peter takes it all in with vigor. His hands are itching to take photograph after photograph, his mind reeling with the nerves of a new school (and new bullies), and his stomach flips with anticipation as he drops off his resume to a florists near his new home and school.

 

Their home is small but cozy. Two stories, three bedrooms with two bathrooms, it needs a lot of work and Aunt May was prepared for that. Within one week the fence is repaired, the place is painted a lavish baby blue, and the inside has been cleaned to a spotless degree. The furnishing takes longer, is more laborious and required hired help for Peter to accomplish in a few days. The kitchen is quaint and cute, painted a cream color with granite countertops.

 

The front of the home has a porch with a porch swing that Peter finds it easy to nap on. The backyard is gnarled with some trees, a small plot of grass for Aunt May's gardening, and then the fence gives way to a short little path that leads down and into thicker greenery and more trees. It reminds Peter of a controlled forest that he's sure leads down to the beach eventually. He vows to explore that later when he has someone to bring with him, or maybe when MJ visits.

 

Peter begins putting out birdseed a week and a half into the move, happy with the turn out of birds flocking to their little home. He calls MJ daily, laughing until it hurts about her daily tribulations at work or with her parents. He tells her of all the wildlife and shows her some of his pictures from the stops cross country. She tells him she's jealous and Peter believes it, although it twists something nasty in him.

 

_I didn't ask for this._

 

_Shit happens._

 

Two weeks in and Peter gets the job with the florists. He starts his training on a hot Monday for how the arrangements are typically done, what the different flowers are, and how they need to be maintained. The place is expansive inside, warm and inviting and made with more windows than walls. It sits atop a little cliff edge and overlooks the sea. Peter wonders how the owner can afford this kind of rent.

 

His boss is an interesting, all American man named Steve Rogers and Peter finds him more fascinating than he'd care to admit. The man is perfect in build, in stance, in compassion. He's alive in a way Peter's cynicism would never allow. Peter's coworker, Natasha, claims Steve's husband is an asshole and Peter finds that terrifying coming from such a coarse woman's lips.

 

Natasha quickly becomes Peter's friend in a way that is hard to believe. She dresses like she models for Hot Topic, a joke Peter bites his tongue on for a while. Her outfits consists of all black, save for the bright yellow sunflower pin she attaches to her shirt every morning when she shows up for work. It has her name on it, and Steve insists she wear it despite the customers already knowing her by name. After all, the town is not large and there aren't many Russian goths residing within it she eloquently points out time and time again. The way Steve and Natasha go back and forth, Peter wonders how long Natasha has been around and how Steve is able to take everything she says with a grain of salt. Peter decides likes this dynamic, falling into it with an ease he wouldn't have believed possible a few months ago.

 

Natasha, Peter learns quickly, is an exchange student from Russia attending the nearby community college. Her accent is rough and only peaks when she gets flustered (rare) or angry (often). There is a lot to Natasha that Peter realizes he doesn't know, doesn't understand, but he has a good basis. For starts, she (unsurprisingly) loves the occult and _American Horror Story_ , successfully introducing Peter to the show too. The first time they hang out outside of work is a Tuesday and they stay up binging the first season with popcorn.

 

Her apartment is small and tidy, her roommate wasn't present, but Peter gets the impression he has to be quite the character to live with someone like Natasha. She laments that he is akin to a cretin or something and Peter laughs.

 

“Do you miss New York?” She asks him three beers in. Peter is halfway through a slice of pizza and he stops for a moment, lips pursing.

 

“Yeah, I do. I mean, California is great and all but...”

 

She holds up a hand, eyes returning to the tv screen. “I understand. Say no more.”

 

Peter contemplates asking if she misses Russia, but something tells the teen that she doesn't. So, instead, he settles with a:

 

“I don't miss the smell of it though.”

 

She throws her head back and laughs at that and Peter feels a small swell of pride at that.

 

Natasha also has a knack for the funeral arrangements which Peter refuses to help with. They almost seem to burn him, too soon for him to attempt or even think about. She understands without asking for the details and doesn't tell their boss, just completes the funeral arrangements assigned to Peter effortlessly and resumes bothering Peter in a way Peter understands is meant to be 'friendly'. He can't lie: He finds Natasha intimidating but also intriguing. She's smart, tough, and a good teacher––albeit Rogers insists Peter is simply a quick learner.

 

With but a week before classes start again, Peter feels a small piece of himself coming back to life. MJ points it out on face-time, Aunt May points it out with his favorite foods, and Peter sees it in his newly blossoming passion for the little town.

 

A small piece of Peter is back and he feels it in the way he moves, talks, laughs. Aunt May sees it too and begins baking cookies again, and that is when Peter understands why there are so many famous songs written about California.

 

 

 

 


	2. Alstroemeria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wade kicks back in his seat and grins even wider, even sharper at his classmate. The action stuns Peter who somehow gets lost in watching the way that signature leather jacket tightens across Wade's broad shoulders. The material is stretching and Peter swallows around a lump."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alstroemeria: The flower of "good fortune, friendship, and new beginnings".
> 
> Was going to wait until tomorrow afternoon to post, but why wait? This chapter is also significantly longer than the last. Its about 9 pages lmao, consider it thanks for all the wonderful kudos and comments you guys gave me on chapter one!!

 

As time progresses, California sweeps itself into the beautiful merge of fall and summer. The days are still hot, enough that shorts and tank tops are appropriate wear. By the evenings, the weather shifts into a fragile freezing temperature that goes straight to the small town's inhabitant's bones. Peter brings a sweater to work everyday, arriving in sci fi tee shirts by day and leaving in ugly knit sweaters by night.

 

Natasha takes him to a neighboring town's mall. The drive isn't too bad, all along highway 1, and Peter finds himself lost amongst the sights. There's the glittering water and tackling waves lapping the beaches shores, then there's the pocketed mini-forests that are encased in looming shadows and intricate greenery. Peter wants to photograph it all, but bites his tongue as Natasha turns up the radio loud and rolls down all the windows. As his hair grows disorderly from all the interaction, Peter thinks he may need to get a haircut soon.

 

At the mall, Natasha insists they visit several stores (unsurprisingly including Spencer's and Hot Topic to their escapade). Peter gravitates more to the Barnes and Noble as well as the smoothie stands. By the end of the day both are exiting with several bags on their arms and Peter briefly wonders if he really _needed_ to buy all these things.

 

“Stop that.”

 

Peter cocks a brow, “Stop what?'

 

“Overthinking, it'll kill you, you know.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes and pops a pretzel bite into his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, the words mull over his mind and bleach it dry. He takes a deep breath and focuses on the sun on his skin and the weight of new shoes and tee shirts on his arm. He responds with something witty, but he knows she is right.

 

Back at her apartment the two cook a simple set of enchiladas using a recipe found on Pinterest. Natasha insists that is what they make and Pete eyes the massive amount of left over wearily.

 

“And you said your room mate can eat _all_ of those?”

 

Natasha nods solemnly, “Its disgusting to watch.”

 

Peter takes her word for it and again wonders who her mysterious room mate was. As both Natasha and Peter sit in front of the tv with their piping meals in hand, Peter glances around the apartment for what seems like the hundredth time this evening.

 

“Okay, spill it, what're you looking for?”

 

Peter seemingly melts into the couch, trying to disappear for being caught red handed.

 

“Nothing really, just like...”

 

Natasha crosses her arms expectantly.

 

“There's no photos anywhere. Of you, of your family, but also none of your room mate.”

 

She furrows her brow and nods, “I don't like to keep those kinds of things public, but my room mate just doesn't really have any.”

 

Peter finds that fucking weird but chooses not to mention it. They throw on an 80s slasher film for Natasha and get to eating and discussing the finer things in life:

 

“Do you think people in the 80s ever thought...Maybe this was _too_ much?” Peter asked.

 

Natasha shook her head, “Hell no, they thrived on over the top shit back then.”

 

–

 

The first time Peter meets Wade is during a shift at work. The sky is blotted with cumulus clouds, signifying the potential for rain, but it seems unlikely with how nice the weather has been. The clouds are white and fluffy, spread across the sky lazily and Peter wishes he could nap on one.

 

“You'd fall right through.” Steve informs him as he tidies up the back of the register. Peter leans against one of the ledges connected to the shop's larger windows. It overlooks the water and Peter hums, taking it in for a moment.

 

“Yeah but it'd be totally worth it.”

 

Heights never really scared him anyhow.

 

Steve leaves Peter on his own for the remainder of his shift with promises of Natasha coming in later during the day to relieve him. Its a slower day and Peter takes it upon himself to clean knowing both his boss and his coworker would appreciate him for it. The windows are met with Windex, the floor is swept clear of all loose dirt or petals, and he goes in to fiddle with the third holding fridge for the flower displays to double check that the thermometer and gauge is working correctly.

 

Of course it isn't and Peter mutters something disgruntled under his breath seeing the numbers jumbled and the temperature warmer than it should of been.

 

“Yeah, Tony really fixed it, uh huh, yeah. Sure thing boss.” He continues, going to the back of the shop to retrieve a few spare tools. When Peter returns, the shop is still empty and the only sound is the constant thrum of the refrigerators alongside the gentle music in the background. Peter steps back inside the fridge and gets to work on the pesky technology. He pops it open with a screwdriver and after fiddling for some twenty minutes, he thinks he has the hang of how the stupid things works.

 

Peter is so immersed in his little side project that the jingle of the shop's front doors doesn't sway him out of his concentration. He continues to work on the gauge and hums to himself as he does so. The tune is light and Peter's glasses are slipping just down the bridge of his nose when another hand sweeps right up from behind him and pushes them back up.

 

Peter freezes for a split second before grabbing the perpetrating arm (warm, leather gloved, muscular?) and twists it back. Peter whips around, hand raised and he slaps the man before he can think twice about it––About the consequences for doing such a thing.

 

It happens before _either_ of them can think twice.

 

The sound is loud and interrupts the steady cadence of the fridge and light music. Peter's thoughts short circuit as he realizes exactly what he did, what that meant.

 

_I'm going to get fired! Oh fuck, oh geez, oh **shit.**_

 

Peter's glasses lay on the ground, cracked, but neither party pay any attention to that, instead Peter almost feels as if _he_ were slapped by how heated his cheeks were becoming with each ticking second.

 

“Shit, whats got you so wound buttercup?” The stranger asks, blue eyes focused intently on Peter's own brown ones. “You know, you can't slap away ugly.”

 

A true scan of the man in front of him, right outside the fridge, tells Peter this guy could easily get out of his grip if he wanted. Big arms, a bigger torso, broad shoulders––Did he play football? He should. Another moment of studying relays that the man is less of a man and more of a teenager perhaps a year or two older than Peter himself. A high schooler? Did that mean Peter had already made an enemy, a bully? _Another_ second and the scars, pock marks, and textured skin come into focus. _Burn victim?_ Whispers at the edge of Peter's thoughts but he bites his tongue before those words can escape.

 

Those would be very, _very_ bad words to allow to escape.

 

“T-That wasn't––Isn't––You _scared the shit out of me,_ ” Peter responds in a quick huff, letting go and still eying the man wearily. “You can't just go touching people like that! Especially...I don't even know you!”

 

Wade listens with barely contained boredom, his free hand reaching up to his ear and cleaning the inside with a lone finger as if for emphasis of just how little he _cared_.

 

Wade shrugs, “Well, you're not s'pose to be goin' around and slapping customers either, are you, buttercup?”

 

“Don't call me that!” Peter's voice is indignant but has lost the edge it had before, albeit the adrenaline is still thick in his veins and his legs still feel weak. He can't help it, this was––

 

“I mean I was just trying to help you out because your glasses were, well, falling. But...” He gestured to the newly broken pair on the ground, “A shame too, you're cuter with them. But, maybe you need a better pair. These are sort of...90s dad fashion, don't-cha think?”

 

“What is _that_ supposed to––“

 

“Look, I'm just here for the arrangement my boss called in, is Natasha here? I can tell you're new, she'll know where it is and stuff.” Wade hurried on. He bent down and picked up the pair of glasses and handed them to Peter. The flower boy looked like a lost puppy with a broken toy, his hands taking the glasses with barely contained annoyance. “Are you gonna be able to see alright?”

 

“Yeah, I'm farsighted, not stupid.” Peter snaps and that is the first time Wade laughs at something Peter says.

 

Wade held both hands up, “Its too soon into this conversation to be sure of something like that, don't you think?”

 

“Well, its soon enough to know you're an asshole at the very least,” Peter bites back, turning around and closing the fridge to preserve the slowly wilting flowers.

 

_I need to finish that..._

 

“See, there you go again, being all unprofessional. I'm a customer, a _regular_ buttercup, why not try being nice to me?” Wade teases, walking over to the register. He leans against it like he owns it and something boils deep in Peter's veins. Annoyance? Perhaps its something stronger than that.

 

“Look, Natasha isn't here. I need to fix that fridge,” Peter says flatly, sighing and stepping behind the counter. “Can I get your name?” He asks slowly, pulling up the program.

 

“Wade, but I'm pretty sure its not listed in there. Good ol' Rogers just keeps the tab up with my boss or some shit.”

 

True to Wade's word, Peter didn't see Wade's name nor the arrangement he was supposed to be grabbing. With a huff, the brunet put his hands on his hips. “So, do you know what kind of flowers are in the arrangement you're getting then? It has to be in the back for sure.”

 

_Can this just please be over?_

 

“Do I look like someone who knows jack shit about flowers? I just know this time of year we get the pink ones, with the yellow in the middle? They're some hard ass name to pronounce...No, not that, no not those either,” Wade seemed to respond to no one in particular, “I think they start with an A and...”

 

Peter's brain left the conversation for a moment as Wade continued on. What would Aunt May consider this kind of obnoxious blabbing?–– _Droning_. The other teen was simply droning on and on.

 

Upon further inspection, Peter came to the conclusion that: No, in fact the blue eyed teen (Wade?) did _not_ look like he knew what flowers were which. Instead, he had a gruffness to his face that made him appear more rugged, perhaps an outdoorsy type with dirt bikes or fishing? The leather jacket and gloves signified he rode some sort of bike, albeit, perhaps they were just to protect and hide his skin condition.

 

_You're judging him based off nothing, Parker._

 

Peter wondered if Wade's whole body was a landmine of scars and deep tissuing pain, if the scars even hurt or perhaps if they were old enough to not have any sensitivity at all. Peter remembered a biology teacher once explaining how scarring could go either way––Heightened sensitivity or none at all, would that mean constant pain or a lack of pain?

 

“Alstroemeria is the flower you're describing,” Peter cut Wade off, turning and heading into the back before his staring could be mentioned.

 

_Rude, rude, so fucking rude._

 

“Here it is.” Peter returned with the vase containing beautiful flowers. It had taken him a moment to find the arrangement, but it was set away from the other in progress ones and Peter deduced it was the correct arrangement from that alone. The colors ranged from deep pink, to light oranges, and finally to some pale yellow. The vase itself was clear and there was a single deep red rose in the center of the arrangement.

 

“Alstroe-What?”

 

“Alstroemeria.” Peter repeated with a small smirk as Wade fumbled over the name.

 

“Whatever. Sounds like a fucking STD.” Wade shrugged and was out the door before Peter could even counter the statement, “See you around, buttercup!”

 

Peter is just grateful that he is almost positive Wade isn't going to tell anyone about this incident.

 

–

 

It takes a full week until his new glasses arrive, but Peter is thankful for them nonetheless. Natasha insisted on being a part of his selection process. Peter was apprehensive initially, insisting he _knew_ which frames suited him best.

 

“Yeah, tell that to the old pair you were sporting.” She hums, leaning over his shoulder and looking at the list Peter had pulled up on his phone.

 

And so, that was how Peter ended up opening a box that fateful week later and pulling out a pair of horn rimmed, black glasses. The frames were a little thick, they were scholarly, and when he puts them on...

 

“Oh.” He says to himself in the mirror. Peter can't suppress the little, self confident smile that crosses his face as he really gets a gander for his 'new' look.

 

Perhaps Natasha knew a bit more about fashion than her frequent trips to Hot Topic suggested.

 

–

 

The first day of school comes so quick, its like whiplash to Peter's face. Peter had been trying to mentally psyche himself up for this day, for the fear of all the new people, no Mary Jane, and especially navigating the unknown maze that would surely be this new hellhole. After all, Peter was good with equations _not navigating_ hallway after hallway with mismarked doors and taped up windows. Peter's spatial navigation was weak, he was terrible with directions for god's sake and––He isn't ready–– _fuck, he isn't ready!_

 

Theres a hurried breath that Peter forces himself to take in as his alarm goes off to start getting ready for the day. Him and Mary Jane get ready on face time together to make the process less...

 

“Painful,” Peter mutters under his breath. MJ laughs from the phone, pulling on a purple sweater. The fall in New York is colder, harsher than California and she throws on layers as she jokes with Peter to help calm his nerves. She had spent days picking the exact outfit she wanted to wear her first day back to classes and Peter had _insisted_ that purple was her color.

 

“Its not that bad, Peter!” She admonishes, smiling from the phone. She sits at her armor with make up in hand, eyeliner being drawn carefully over her pale eyelids.

 

She was right of course. It was, in fact, not that bad. However, this was the first time Peter would be tackling a new school year without Uncle Ben to talk him up, to give him that extra push to make the days worth it. Peter didn't mention this, but the heaviness crept into his heart and weighed it down to his stomach.

 

Peter purses his lips and throws on his Adventure Time tee followed by pulling up some dark jeans. He feels comfortable and in his own skin, but tries not to get too into the moment. As much as he loved class and was excited (nervous, oh _fuck am I gonna vomit?_ ) for the potential to make more friends, Peter couldn't shake the fear that he'd run into a new bully or Wade.

 

He knew the odds were against him: Small town, initial meeting, teenage demeanor, etc.

 

_God, please, if you're there don't let me run into that grade A asshole._

 

“Yeah, maybe its not so bad when you're not a scrawny Forman guy like me,” Peter grumbles, spraying deodorant under the shirt. “But, unfortunately, I'm a scrawny Forman guy.”

 

MJ cocks a brow and side eyes her phone's camera, “Are you calling me your Donna then?”

 

Peter rolls his eyes, “You're more of my Hyde.”

 

–

 

He walks to school because it is closer than Aunt May thought and she offers the ride regardless, but Peter doesn't want to bother her.

 

“Its good exercise!” He insists to convince her. It is mainly to make Aunt May's life easier. Peter just walks for the hell of it though, also appreciating the solidarity––The calm before the potential storm.

 

His neighborhood is nice enough, albeit the homes are nothing special, they hold a comfort close to his heart. Peter understands this place is slowly becoming home and does his best to embrace rather than fight that feeling. After all, he'd be spending a lot of time in this little beach town, maybe even longer than simply the next two years if he went to community college.

 

The leaves are officially changing color, falling in disproportionate patterns all across the cracked sidewalk. Peter does his best to step over the purposeful piles of them, but aims for the single crunchy looking ones. The satisfaction that wells up inside the teen as the leaves crunch beneath his sneakers makes Peter almost too giddy. Eventually, he reaches his new campus and is first struck by the high gate that creates an ominous atmosphere to the front of the school.

 

Once past the gates the entire demeanor of the school shifts from Stephen King to more of a Wimpy Kid performance. There are posters written on with Crayola markers taped outside and there are students milling around with thermoses, cell phones, and notebooks in hand. Peter heaves a sigh of relief at the familiarity of it all and hikes his back pack higher up on his shoulder. The bell rings as he approaches the hall doors and Peter does his best to haul himself to his class, aiming to be on time. His anxiety lingers on the tip of his tongue, choking him from asking for mere directions to room H-303, and he, of course, ends up late to his first class.

 

_Shit happens._

 

The teacher gives him a mild time about it and Peter crumples in his front row seat like scrap paper, curling into himself as he realizes he already failed at making a decent first impression.

 

_Shit happens._

 

–

 

Biology is one of Peter's favorite subjects. In sixth grade, he remembers the fond smell of bitter metal, noxious gases, and salt, all reminding him of the summer he spent at a special science camp. Peter had excelled in the chemistry and physics portions, but his true talent stuck out for the biology and botany sections of the program. Peter had an excellent memory, a green thumb, and a knack for conceptualizing the different aspects of biology.

 

From evolution to angiospermophyta, Peter was able to retain it all and even help his peers. In middle school, he participated in a volunteer planting program for one of the local parks back in New York. Now, as a teenager, he was finally able to take a real class on the two things he loved to learn about the most: Plants and biology. Perhaps it would not compare to what he'd be able to take later in college, but for now, this was enough to keep Peter interested _enough_ in school.

 

Peter entered the classroom with a slight bounce to his step. No one could touch him here––Soon, his fellow students would know this was his forte and be less inclined to bug him. There was also the excitement of labs giving him the opportunity to make new friends easily. Peter sat at one of the group tables (for individual desks were not available in the science rooms) and pulled out his things. Students trickled into the room in small groups and soon enough Peter's table was near full.

 

All the other tables were completely filled and the teacher walked in. She was a string of a woman, long and willowy with brown hair tied up in a scruffy pony tail. Her glasses were balanced precariously on her thin nose and her voice was brash with barely tamed excitement.

 

After introductions, Peter found a syllabus in front of him and things went well for the first fifteen minutes of class.

 

After going through the usual basics (syllabus, rambling, materials, more rambling, the text book, is _she telling her life story?),_ the teacher grins and passes out a fifth sheet. Just as Peter is questioning his teacher's green policy ( _what_ _was with all this wasted paper?_ ) he reads the damned thing. A semester long project was what he read first for it was bold on the top of the page. Further inspection relayed that the project was done with paired off students, and suddenly Peter's throat is closing up again.

  
  


_At least I don't have to choose my partner._

  
  


The teacher starts pairing off kids starting in the very back of the classroom and combing her way forward. Peter panics silently in his seat, eyes dancing between his table mates. They're an odd number including him and the four others knew each other meaning the odds played in their favor rather than Peter's.

  
  


Peter wonders if he is going to be in a group of three, or perhaps he'd be lucky and be allowed to work alone? Hardly a chance in hell, after all, this _was_ Peter Parker's luck being discussed. Just as the teacher begins to list off the pairings for his table, Peter practically winces as she reads off his name. Her eyes scan the remaining tables worth of kids, trying to pick one out to suit him.

  
  


_Please not her, she was chewing on her hair before class..._

  
  


Just as the teacher is about to make her selection, the doors to the classroom open and Peter's head whips to face the new person. Hope sparks low in Peter's chest until...

  
  


_Oh fuck._

 

Wade Wilson walks in like he owns the place, like he doesn't care, and there's a frappucino in his hand that threatens to be too cold for the way the weather was panning out this week. He apologizes briefly to the teacher before scanning the classroom for an empty seat. Much to Peter's chagrin, the teenager calmly takes the free seat at Peter's table, directly across from the florist. Wade smirks up at Peter and slides his backpack off his shoulder. There's amusement in those blue eyes, spilling over and mocking Peter.

 

God, they were _mocking_ him.

 

The teacher pairs Peter and Wade off with an enthusiasm Peter lacks and she gushes about how, “Maybe Mr. Parker you can get Wade here up to par with this class! He'll be a real challenge for you.”

 

Peter tunes out her gushing in a mere instant, zeroing in on:

 

_Really god, **this** is how you answer that prayer?_

 

For one thing, Peter feels betrayed. For another, he wonders what the hell his teacher meant by Wade being a 'challenge' for him. Thirdly, what was the project even about again?

 

Wade kicks back in his seat and grins even wider, even sharper at his classmate. The action stuns Peter who somehow gets lost in watching the way that signature leather jacket tightens across Wade's broad shoulders. The material is stretching and Peter swallows around a lump.

 

“What's up, buttercup?” Wade asks in a quiet voice.

 

He is positively _smug_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its late here and I wrote this in one shot, so please let me know of any mistakes. Hope you like it, god, I love Wade in a good ol' fashioned leather jacket lmao. Can you guess who the bio teacher is based on? As a hint, she isn’t from any series related to Spidey or Deadpool.


End file.
